End Game
by Kristen999
Summary: John is forced to fight for his life and the lives of his teammates. His opponent may be the most formidable he has ever faced... oh, and there’s also deadly radiation, freezing temps and hypoxia.


Title: "End Game"  
Author:Kristen999  
Word Count: 19,000-  
Rating: T  
Genre: Gen, Action, H/C  
Spoilers: None  
Warnings: Violence and coarse language

Summary: John is forced to fight for his life and the lives of his teammates. His opponent may be the most formidable he has ever faced... oh, and there's also deadly radiation, freezing temps and hypoxia.

Written for coolbreeze1 for the sheppard hc Secret Santa. Prompt at the end.

I wanted to thank the wonderful Frisco for the swift and awesome beta!!

* * *

The blue man's exoskeleton suit was perfection, the ingenious material both waterproof and flame retardant. It flexed as skin, providing comfort against the outside elements and protection during combat. Wings spanning two meters fluttered in magnificence, his staff weapon forged of…

Rodney paused, contemplating the materials at his disposal and the amount of points he had left to spend on the ultimate battle weapon. Scaling back on intelligence was out of the question; perhaps he should skim a few off the strength attributes. Rubbing his pointer finger over the mouse, he dialed back on the physical characteristics when something smacked him in the back of the head.

Hitting save, he closed his laptop, setting it down before unraveling the balled piece of paper that accosted him. "Hey! This was from my copy of _Astrophysics Monthly._"

"It's the crossword page."

"That's the best part," Rodney protested, eyes bulging at the empty squares, and glared at Sheppard. "You didn't even solve them!'

"Left my pen in the other jumper."

"Like you could do them in pen. And why are you talking to me? Shouldn't your eyes be facing the HUD so we don't collide with the meteor fields?"

"We went through those two hours ago, not that you would've noticed since your nose hasn't risen from the depths of your screen." Pulling out an apple and polishing it against his uniform, Sheppard loudly munched away. "That the new RPG you were going on about yesterday?"

"No. Um, maybe." His game beckoned, daring him to finish his ultimate creation. Rodney reached for his computer when two meaty hands snatched it away. "Excuse me?"

"I want to play Halo," Ronon grumbled, standing to his full height and purposely flexing his arms.

"Last I checked I wasn't in charge of entertaining you." Ronon didn't hand over the laptop and Rodney glared at his team leader. "A little help here."

"If someone hadn't fried the spare one stored in the jumper, there wouldn't be a need for sharing," Sheppard said mid-chew.

"Was this when the jumper was zapped by yet another abandoned energy weapon and we would have all died of starvation on some barren rock unless I diverted power from the computer to open the doors?"

Ronon looked at him, over to Sheppard, then stole the computer, slouching in one of the chairs in the back. "Hey, this guy looks cool. Does he have a gun?"

Biting his lip wouldn't keep Rodney's temper under control. "No, he doesn't have a gun. He has a staff weapon far superior to the Goa'uld's, able to fire with pinpoint accuracy and…" He stopped, feeling the collective eyes of his teammates and crossing his arms in defiance. "It's not my fault that the nearest space gate to the base is a eight hour trip."

"And you're hogging all the good distractions," Sheppard jabbed, still snacking on that damn apple. Despite the good-natured ribbing, his eyes betrayed him, scanning the vast emptiness ahead intently. There was an hour left before they reached their destination.

"Staring out the window isn't going to make us get there any faster. I'm sure communications are offline or the interference that's been giving their LSDs fits has gotten worse. Considering who's in charge of the science team, it's a miracle that things have run as smoothly as they have."

"I am sure Doctor Zelenka has done an admirable job overseeing the team," Teyla said from the back, staring over Ronon's shoulder at the computer in interest. "Was there a reason why the man you created is blue?"

"Blue's a cool color," Rodney defended.

"You _chose_ it?" Teyla inquired.

This wasn't the conversation Rodney wanted at the moment. "Yes, it matched his outfit."

"Fashion sense is a key to winning those types of games."

"You're jealous that my guy could kick your ass." He did it, waved a stick at the lion. Rodney smiled smugly; Sheppard was taking the bait. "There's an online mode."

Sheppard didn't say anything; the smirk revealed that the challenge had been accepted. Rodney had been building and tweaking the perfect character to counter anything Sheppard would ever come up with.

"I don't get it," Ronon rumbled.

"It's called a role playing game. You play as someone else and go on adventures," Sheppard explained in lackluster terms.

"Do you think your life lacks enough excitement?" Teyla teased.

"It's the challenge of building the ultimate character and seeing how your skills match up against the computer or an opponent's." Explaining Earth hobbies to those who thought bows and arrows were acceptable forms of entertainment was frustrating. Didn't they get it? "I can choose mobility, strength, marksmanship. Or the ability to think in a crisis situation, charisma, leadership, I.Q. It's like playing…"

"An all-knowing, all-powerful lord of his domain," Sheppard mocked.

"I'd rather just shoot things. Less work." Ronon dismissed the whole notion, clacking at the keyboard, undoubtedly destroying it in the process.

"If I have to fill out another requisition form because I've lost the T and R keys again, you're hand-delivering it to Woolsey." Ronon ignored him and Sheppard went back to staring out the view screen, as if mental power alone would make them get there faster. "There's nothing interesting on that hunk of rock. We've had rotating teams exploring it for over six weeks now."

"I'm the one who okayed scaling back personnel," Sheppard said.

"Because there was no need for two teams of grunts to babysit one research team," Rodney retorted. "Combat engineers are military trained the last I checked."

There wasn't a response, just the same silence of the last few hours. Without the distraction of his game, or the ability to complete real work thanks to the sanctioned theft of his laptop, Rodney was stuck sharing the oppressive quiet up front. Yes, the discovery of a deserted Ancient facility had the science departments buzzing, drooling in fact to explore the newest play land. Except the Willy Wonka Factory turned out to be a useless mine. No cool gadgets, energy sources, or even a brand new, unstable weapon of mass destruction. Just a desolate hidden moon-base without a single solitarily useful thing.

Then why hide it? Why have a facility that covered thirty square kilometers? Those questions had fueled the need for further exploration. To have a rotating science team and military contingent guarding a pointless moon-base. But Atlantis' resources were not limitless; its personnel were stretched thin across the city and engaged in numerous off-world assignments. Choices had to be made. It'd been easy to cut the number of geologists, but those guarding it. Well, that wasn't under his purview.

"ETA's ten minutes, guys."

Ronon powered-down the laptop, ready to carelessly plop it to the floor, then gently handed it over to Rodney with a grin. Seconds later, the grin was replaced with a serious game face. Pre-mission jitters left Rodney's mouth dry and he nervously gulped down water from his canteen. In essence they were a living, breathing MALP. With an increase of tensions among members of the coalition and random attacks from a new band of raiders against their allies, keeping an additional platoon of marines on an empty moon-base had been deemed a waste of manpower.

Especially if said moon-base had been evaluated as a safe research site. And especially since it was Rodney's conclusion that interference emitted by the mineral ore was the reason for the lack of daily radio transmissions. Ergo, the need to check out things personally.

A moon wasn't round; it was chunky and brittle, a giant rock pulverized over millions of years by meteorites. This one was no different, the jagged surface marred by cracks and eroded gray mountains.

Teyla came over to the pilot's chair, eyeing the desolate area. "I wonder what the Ancients were looking for down there."

"Or building." Sheppard guided them toward the base of a large cliff. "They used to have a shield cloaking the whole base. If Lorne's team hadn't landed here to make emergency repairs coming back from M2X-629, we'd have never known it was here." There were no signs of problems from the outside during the flyby. "Life signs, McKay?"

Rodney's heart sank. "Um…according to this, I'm…I'm reading only three."

"Out of _twenty_?"

"According to the sensors." Rodney triple-checked to no avail, watching Sheppard's penetrating glare out the window. "I'll try the radio." There was no reply as they made their descent into the bay. "Wait. How do we know if the docking mechanism still works?"

"Because it won't connect and I'll have to find another way to land."

Sheppard's self-assurance didn't keep Rodney from gripping the armrests tightly. The narrow shaft leading into the hidden chamber was the stuff of nightmares, the opening filled with jagged, rocky teeth, and it took a few fancy maneuvers to avoid smashing into them, just as the ceiling radically dipped and they squeaked inside.

"Oh, God," Rodney groaned, but Sheppard sported a small smile, before reality snapped it closed.

"Disengaging the shield."

Rodney studied the instruments as the colonel flew them in and reengaged a shield that was severely depleted. The landing area was scary as shit; strips of metal sticking out of a cliff with a mile sheer drop on all sides were the only things that allowed anything to land.

Teyla drifted over, face in awe at the spectacle. "If this was a secret base, why make it so difficult to get inside?"

Rodney let out a breath when the docking mechanism engaged, the jumper jolting as metal claps locked them in place. "Because the Ancients were paranoid. There's nothing useful here."

"Nothing useful, yet there are Ancient transporters, artificial gravity, life support--"

"Yes, yes. I'm sure they thought something _was_ here, Colonel, but obviously they found it or they--"

"Hid it somewhere." Sheppard attached his P-90 and zipped up his tac vest. "Zelenka reported odd blast patterns of what could have been a large scale weapon. There are living facilities and fluctuating power and energy readings."

"It's a mine. Ancient buildings had to be built out of something; maybe this was where the raw materials came from. Last I checked, people had to operate whatever miners used to dig ore. And I've studied those readings; the mineral deposits are the most likely reason for the anomalies."

Teyla and Ronon exchanged expressions at the brewing tension. Rodney had supported pulling out of the base in favor of diverting resources to scour Janis' lab. In an extreme flip-flop of events, Sheppard had been charmed or put under a spell by the geologists to give them more time to explain why there was such a large, concealed base in the middle of nowhere.

Woolsey had gone with Sheppard's recommendation to keep searching.

Leaning against the side bulkhead in fake boredom Ronon broke the growing silence. "We just gonna stand here all day?"

"No, but let me check the radiation levels." Working in a nuclear research station in Siberia had fortified his thick walls of paranoia regarding radiation poisoning. It was another reason this place scared the crap out of him. The radiation emitted from the nearby sun (nearby as in one hundred and seventy million kilometers away) would poach their vital organs in under eight hours. "I'm reading 100 roentgens."

"That good?"

Rodney tampered a sarcastic retort at Ronon's serious face. "We'll be fine. Our exposure will consist of the walk to the main entrance. "

Teyla arched an eyebrow at his calm pronouncement. Hooking a thumb at one of the storage compartments, Rodney smiled. "Brought emergency solar radiation suits just in case."

Sheppard hustled them out. The jumper ramp lowered and Rodney hung back, a sliver of platform the only thing separating them from a half mile of empty air and certain death. Who built a landing dais like this? Shoving his laptop into a knapsack, and adjusting the strap over his shoulder, Rodney grabbed his LSD, eyes attuned to the levels of the poison all around them. He followed the others out, cautiously aware of each step. No need to look down, he thought, not until they'd gone several meters to safety.

They walked under a low ceiling of pure moon rock, but it wouldn't do a lick of good at protecting them from the sun's deadly effects. Despite the fact that he'd been here before, witnessing the fruits of terraforming a moon was still damn impressive. The resources needed to construct a base of this magnitude only sewed the seeds of growing doubt.

_Why was this here?_

"Any change?" Sheppard's voice cut through his musings.

"No. Sorry."

"That leaves three life signs to find," Sheppard growled under his breath.

And seventeen bodies to bring home.

"Any indications of a malfunction or an accident?" Teyla asked, walking beside Rodney, weapon at ready.

"Since we haven't been inside yet, the answer's no." But Rodney studied the red dots. "I don't understand."

"What?" Ronon scanned the gigantic doors that separated them from the safety of four real walls and a roof.

The red dots flashed and blurred, making it hard to pinpoint. "I'm not sure because of the interference, but one of the life signs appears to be out here _with_ us."

Three P-90s aimed for an invisible target, despite the fact that they were here looking for their people. "I think perhaps we should open the door." Rodney headed toward the enormously large barrier and waved his hand over the sensor, brow furrowed when nothing happens. "Huh."

"What's wrong?" Sheppard tried the controls and was unable to coax the door open. "McKay?"

"On it." Nothing worked and Rodney pulled out his laptop, connecting it with specially designed fiber optic cables. "I don't understand," he muttered when his screen remained blank. "Why aren't you working?"

Sheppard played bird dog, LSD in one hand, P-90 crossed over his other arm. "I can't get a bead on the target."

"When did our guys become targets?"

"When seventeen are dead," was tense Sheppard's reply. "I'm getting something twenty meters this way. Teyla, you're with me. Ronon, watch Rodney's back."

Ronon paced the perimeter around the entrance. "Is there another way inside?"

"Um. Maybe? The whole front part of the complex juts out like a giant boot with a small ledge all the way around. I was…um…more interested in what waited on the other side of the door. I didn't survey the outside area other then the death-trap securing our jumper in place."

"If this was just a mine, wouldn't they need large ships to haul the materials away?"

"Yeah, that's why the science team spent so much time here. Sheppard's right. There's an awful lot of remaining Ancient equipment inside, even a few empty labs. But we've scoured the place for concealed rooms and I've analyzed all of Zelenka's data bursts concerning the random energy readings."

"And you think that's because of a bunch of rocks?'

"The ore's been giving the geologists kittens. It transmits a weird low-level frequency which might be the reason for this facility, but we're not sure of the minerals' value. It's not like they left any research behind, which would have been kind of helpful."

"Still can't get it to work?" Ronon was next to him, staring at the blank screen.

"Nothing. It won't even acknowledge my computer." Frustrated, he banged on the thick metal door with his fist in a very Ronon-like manner, pain radiating through his hand. "Ow."

"You all right?"

"No! I think I just fractured my fingers." Rodney cradled his hand, thinking icepack then aspirin, when the colonel's yelling broke through the throbbing.

Sheppard carried someone in a very familiar clunky orange suit, with Teyla right behind him, covering their six.

"What happened?" Ronon demanded as Sheppard lowered an unconscious Zelenka to the ground.

"We do not know. He was holed up in a crevice," Teyla informed them, weapon ready, eyes alert for danger.

"Is he our life sign out here?" Rodney asked, kneeling beside his fallen teammate, afraid to get too close if he was emanating cosmic rays.

"Yeah," Sheppard huffed loudly for air. "That leaves two others inside somewhere."

Teyla hesitated about removing the helmet and looked to Rodney. "Do you think I should--"

"Go ahead. He was probably out here to inspect the shield or repair it. That suit has protected him from the radiation, so it's safe to remove it, " Rodney replied.

It must have been like undressing a crash-test dummy, but Teyla got enough off to examine Zelenka. Rodney was reeling on a knife's edge of panic and adrenaline. There was no blood or sign of any horrible open wounds.

She unfastened the buttons of his shirt, revealing more of Zelenka's body than Rodney ever wanted to see. "There are no obvious signs of trauma," she said, finger examining every inch of skull. "There is a large bump at the base of his neck."

Not to mention a nasty shiner to his right eye.

"Did he have anything on him?" Rodney asked, cringing at how callous his words sounded.

"Yeah." Sheppard handed him a handheld computer. "I saw another set of doors where we found him. I'm going to try to find another way in. Rodney, see if you can locate anything that'll tell us what the hell's been going on. We'll stay in radio contact. Two minute intervals."

Ronon followed Sheppard's lead, blaster gripped in eager fingers. Zelenka's computer droned as Rodney booted it to life, his fingers tapping codes and accessing files. Things were spiraling out of control, too many distractions vying for his attention.

It felt like only sixty seconds had passed, before something squawked in his ears and he realized ten minutes had gone by.

_"McKay."_

"What?" he growled, tapping the buzzing com.

_"We found a transporter, but it's not working."_

"Of course not. I can't even tap into the complex's mainframe yet."

_"Can you see if you can work your magic on it? We need to get inside."_

"Do I need to remind you of the effects of radiation exposure the more we dilly-dally out here? That shield provides us with an atmosphere for breathing and to keep us from freezing to death. Nothing else. "

_"The more reason to get this transporter working."_

"Point taken." Clicking the radio off, he glanced between Zelenka and Teyla. "I have to--"

"I will watch over Radek."

Rodney hesitated about leaving her alone without back-up.

"Go!"

He ran, nearly toppling over in his haste, and at the same time he had no idea where to go. _Your_ LSD. Rodney pulled out his lifeline, squinting at the two dots further away, two others blinking much deeper inside the sprawling complex. They needed to get the hell out of Dodge, grab Zelenka and return with a space bulldozer or whatever combat engineers used. Except he knew better, imagined himself where those two dots were, trapped inside a freaking moon, waiting on a rescue.

Red dots blinked a few hundred meters away, then vanished and Rodney froze in terror. "Sheppard? Ronon?"

"Over here!"

"Oh, thank goodness." Hustling over, he screeched to a halt in front of a transporter. "Your dots disappeared," he said accusingly.

Sheppard moved aside so Rodney could inspect the control panel. "That's not good."

"Yeah," Rodney huffed, wondering if he could afford any more heart attacks. "You didn't tell me this was actually _functional_." The controls shined dimly with power, unlike the other monstrous door. "We might be in luck."

"Nuthin' happened when we went inside."

Of course Ronon had to rain on his tiny glimmer of hope. "The doors actually opened?"

"Yeah."

Then Sheppard stepped inside before Rodney could blurt out, "Wait, don't!"

The doors slammed shut, the controls glowing brightly. Rodney was up like a shot, sore hand ready to slam the metal barrier. "Damn it!"

The transporter opened and Sheppard was gone. Ronon frantically stepped inside, grabbing Rodney by the tac vest. "Let's go."

Except nothing happened; the both of them were left standing, the controls shifting to standby. "Oh, no."

Ronon banged on the panel despite Rodney's shout of protests. "Don't!"

"Why isn't it working?"

"I'm not sure, but destroying the only means to get us inside won't help!"

Ronon's breathing was fast, Rodney's faster, but that didn't change the fact that Sheppard wasn't there anymore. He'd been transported inside, and Rodney had no idea where or why.

-------------------

A tingling sensation crawled across his skin as he readied for his unexpected ride to end. Nothing jumped out at him when the doors opened, only darkness, and despite how much he wanted to confront it, he didn't move, trying to get the transporter to send him back. The control panel wouldn't respond no matter how many times he gestured over it; the urge to smack it came to mind, but he knew better.

"McKay?" he yelled into his com, static his only reply.

Two of their guys were still MIA, so he flicked on his P-90's light and stepped into the corridor, the doors whooshing shut behind him. Something ominous slinked down his spine and yeah, he was stuck here, because the transporter wouldn't open back up.

John scowled at his LSD as he jogged; according to the display he was deep inside the base, practically on the opposite end from his team. The only good news was the two roaming dots skittering across the screen.

The hallway had been perfectly carved out, possibly by some fancy laser gizmo that the combat engineers had been probably beside themselves over. There were signs of a ventilation system along the ceiling, Ancient tech clashing with barren stone. Parts of the wall glimmered as he went by, recessed lighting iridescent every few meters. Thank goodness the artificial gravity still worked; the complex was powered by a ZPM on its last leg.

The two unidentified red dots were a few miles away according to scale. John studied their movements, that ominous tingle prickling to full fledged paranoia. Red Dot One's engagements were classic evasive maneuvers, entering rooms, taking lefts followed by rights, never using the most direct route through the complex. Red Dot Two matched each direction; the two never occupied the same room.

Why weren't they paired up?

John calculated a rendezvous point, hands curling around his weapon, the metal comforting him just a little. Picking up the pace, he pumped his legs, sprinting faster, sweat beading at his brow. The temperature was bearable, if not a little chilly; the thermostat might be wonky because Lieutenant Morris had reported that conditions inside had been comparable to the Atlantis.

According to the LSD, a large room was up ahead and the doors opened automatically, inviting him inside. Blood tarnished the ground in big fat splatter patterns. Kneeling, he traced his finger across a crusty stain at least a day old. His heart thudded loudly in his ears as he followed the rust-colored trail across the stone slate. God, there was so much of it. And to make things worse, there were two more massive pools with dozens of tread marks trampled all over them. A hall of horrors.

Shell casings littered the ground, small and large caliber. A war had broken out in here – cast-off splattered against the west wall, overturned crates used as cover, and scorch marks from a recent explosion streaked the ceiling. Swallowing past a lump in his throat, John hustled toward the barricade.

Son of a bitch!

He spotted a military issued boot, followed by a bloodied Atlantis uniform with charred holes the size of a silver dollars. It was Sergeant Martinez, his eyes open and vacant. John leaned over, closed the lids, fingers lingering on the dead pulse point and clammy skin. He retrieved one of the dog tags before checking the life sign's detector.

Both dots were still on the move, closing in on his location. John was up and running, mind racing along with his footsteps. The dots closed in from three sectors away and he'd be damned if they got a leg up on him. They were the enemy now, an unknown factor responsible for this carnage. All thoughts became a single pinprick, everything else deadweight.

His eyes darted between the LSD and straight ahead, and he charged toward the next room, all senses attuned to the slightest change. Rotting odors assaulted his nostrils – decay, blood, and heat. Eight or nine body bags were stacked in the corner, toe tags poking like white flags out of the ends. Bile mixed with rage, and he forced it into the pit of his stomach.

The red dots were a sector away, just a few more rooms. Adrenaline infused his veins and John sprinted faster to meet them head-on.

"Where's John?"

Rodney didn't mean to ignore Teyla, but the only real answer to this whole fubared situation lay with a certain unconscious physicist.

"Sheppard's missing. The transporter sent him inside, but it's broken now," Ronon fumed. The only thing missing was smoke flaring out his nostrils and if Rodney didn't know any better, he'd think the big guy planned on going back to those doors with a blow torch if he had one.

Teyla stood facing her teammates. "Do you know why?"

"Either the transporter malfunctioned when you guys first tried to activate it, and then miraculously worked for the two seconds it took to send Sheppard somewhere. Or…"

"Or someone took him," Teyla finished his train of thought.

"We should go back. See if you can override it," Ronon insisted.

Rodney was furious at the technological malfunction and the malicious blocks to keep him from learning the truth. "My computer wouldn't connect to the panel, just like it won't connect here. Either the mainframe switched operating systems, or something or someone is blocking my attempts."

"It's him," a weak voice slurred.

"Radek?" Teyla crouched down, hand resting on the wounded scientist's shoulder.

"Who are you talking about? Who's _him_?" Rodney demanded.

"Give Radek a moment," Teyla admonished, her eyes daggers. She turned to their injured teammate. "Would you like some water?"

Zelenka blinked, eyes tracking Teyla's hands unsteadily then squeezing closed. "Yes, please."

Teyla held the canteen to his lips, every second of silence a dentist drill to Rodney's head. Ronon wasn't much better, looming over them, a bulldog eager to give chase.

"Do you remember what happened?" Teyla asked.

A battered and bruised face creased in thought. "We were attacked."

"Did you see them? Do you know their numbers?" Ronon questioned.

Zelenka shook his head, wincing. "Never saw him. Just…just glimpses."

"Was it a Wraith?"

Ronon had a one track mind, but it was a valid question.

"No, he's human."

Rodney vibrated with anxiety. "He? I know your bell's been rung recently, but who are you talking about? What happened?"

"They're all dead."

It shouldn't have come as a shock to any of them, but hearing the words was a physical blow. The oppressive silence turned into heavy knots in all their stomachs and Rodney sat on the ground with a thud. "How?" he whispered.

Zelenka cradled his head. "He was everywhere. Hunted us down."

Ronon growled under his breath, facial muscles twitching. "One guy killed everyone?"

"Yes."

"Is he a replicator or some kind of alien?" Teyla asked gently, squeezing Zelenka's shoulder in encouragement.

"No, he's…" Zelenka grimaced, waving weakly at his handheld computer. "I downloaded what he was…before…before..."

"It is okay; give yourself time," Teyla said. Zelenka's complexion ashened further before he nodded and curled up on his side.

Rodney began searching for the newest file, eyes scrolling over page after page of data.

"What is it?" Ronon towered over Rodney's shoulder.

"There are thousands of megabytes of information here; give me more than two seconds." His fingers tap-danced over the keys, processing bio-engineering models, DNA strands, complex genetics that Carson would eat with a spoon. "This isn't good."

"McKay."

"Don't McKay me," he snapped at his restless teammate. Ronon was on the verge of an aneurysm. Rodney could relate. "This appears to be years of research on an Ancient military program to create the perfect soldier."

"The perfect soldier?" Teyla and Ronon book-ended each other, both of them blocking his light.

Rodney gnawed on his bottom lip, eyes glued to the rapid influx of information. "It'll take me time, but we're talking agility, strength, speed…intelligence…oh no…"

"What?" Ronon snarled.

"Stupid Ancients playing with--"

There was a loud metal snap, then a grinding sound.

"What the hell?" But Rodney realized in horror what that noise was. "No!'

Teyla and Ronon flanked him; the three of them ran toward the grating of steel, followed by a loud boom of metal on rock.

Rodney tripped, picked himself up, then reached the end of the docking bay, skidding to a halt. "Are you freaking serious?"

Ronon peered over the metal ledge. "Don't think we'll be flying home in that."

Teyla stared over the gaping drop and back up at Rodney. "Atlantis will send help when we are overdue."

Overdue. In ten hours.

Rodney studied his watch. "We'll be dead by then."

Because in six and a half hours, they'd be exposed to deadly levels of radiation.

John and Red Dot One were on a collision course, the blinking light lying in wait behind the next door. Both life signs followed parallel paths toward him, friend or foe, working in tandem or against one another. There was no telling, but it was time to find out. His tac vest scraped against the rocky wall as he inched closer -- the dot disappearing.

Damned interference.

A quick glance at the LSD confirmed the second bogey's pursuit course and he burst into the room, the light of his P-90 strafing the darkened space. John's eyes adjusted to consoles layered by ten-thousand year old dust and he went low, using the equipment as cover, dismissing empty areas and studying the staircase leading up to a platform. The perfect spot for an ambush.

He memorized the number of steps, cut off his light and dashed up, the soles of his boots echoing loudly. The clomping blew his surprise and his quarry reacted, feet scuffling above.

"Show yourself!" John shouted, flipping on the light, the beam bouncing up the last of the steps.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

John laid off the trigger at the familiar voice, taking the rest of the steps two at a time to kneel in front of the injured Marine. "Lieutenant Parker, what happened?" he growled. There was more blood than uniform, his fingers slick within seconds of searching for injury. "Lieutenant!"

Parker had been special ops, able to kill a dozen ways with a pencil. His usually sharp stare was framed by two black eyes and a face used as a punching bag. It was a miracle he was conscious, but then again, he was a Marine, a .45 still gripped in his shaking hand.

"Colonel," Parker rasped, bloodied fingernails snagging John's shoulder like a lifeline. "You- you gotta get outta here, sir."

"That's the plan," John replied, racking his brain on the how.

"No…you don't understand…he's right behind me."

Red Dot Two blinked three rooms away, closing the distance. "That other life sign. Is it responsible for what happened here?" John asked, eyeing the other door, checking his line of sight.

"Yes! Run, sir!" Parker coughed, spraying crimson droplets across John's neck and chin. "He's too fast. N-never…never see him comin'."

"You didn't battle ten weeks of PT on that leg just to fall back on your ass!" John snarled.

"Go!" Parker barked, shoving John bodily away, leaving bloody smears across his wrist.

Time was up according to the LSD and John placed himself in front of the marine, aiming at the door.

Wait for it. Timing was everything, three meters, two. Red Dot Two vanished from the LSD.

"Damn it!"

"Fire, sir!"

No time for distractions, but Parker was up, gun wavering in an unsteady grip, and then he crumpled to the ground.

John took his eye off the prize, diverting his attention toward his fallen man. Two raspy breaths, a couple slamming heartbeats, then a set of feet banged up the metal stairs.

He swung his P-90 around, only to stare down the end of another weapon, the barrel practically shoved into his face. The only think his brain registered was it lacked the scent of gun oil.

"Drop it!" Fury gave John's voice deadly authority. Squeezing the trigger would cut this bastard down and likely get John shot in the process. Then who would bring Parker home?

Parker wheezed stuttering breaths fueled by terror and fury. His gun clattered from his grip and John shifted his body to cover the struggling Marine. "Don't try anything; that's an order," he hissed without turning.

Staring down the end of a weapon was nothing new; the leather-gloved hand holding it was calm and cool. It looked like a rifle, the body of the weapon all smooth lines, no chamber or magazine. Probably another energy weapon, no telling how many settings it had.

The bad guy wasn't talking, but John sized him up. This enemy wore a black uniform that was nearly invisible in the darkness, save for a belt and his bad-assed gun. Everything about this guy screamed military, the posturing, the attitude, except there was nothing spectacular about him. He was normal height and weight, with shorn light brown hair. Ordinary, but ordinary didn't take out a whole platoon of skilled Marines and a dozen geniuses.

"Lower your weapon," John ordered. He had a bead on the middle of the man's chest, a kill shot right through the heart, but pumping a couple rounds wouldn't matter if under that black fabric were Kevlar plates or invisible energy shields.

"Lower yours," the bad guy spoke.

Sweat beaded under John's hairline; endorphins flooded his nervous system and coiled his muscles. "I bet we're both good shots."

"At my angle and distance, mine will burn a hole through your face and blow out the back of your skull. Without motor skills, you have no shot."

"Want to test those odds?" John bluffed, adding pressure to the trigger, prepared to dive the other way.

"That particular test is unnecessary."

John's face remained stock still, narrowing his eyes when a man responsible for nearly twenty deaths, bent at the knees and placed his weapon on the step in front of him for no reason.

"Kick the rifle onto the first floor." The bad guy followed John's command, the weapon clattering to the ground below. Firing thirty rounds in five seconds would end this, but killing in cold blood wasn't his thing, so John backed away four paces, placing distance between them. "Put your hands behind your head."

The other soldier complied, causing John's heart to saw through his breastbone. _This is way too easy, John._ "Now, very slowly, stand next to the railing. You twitch, and it'll be the last thing you do."

"You put much weight in your abilities. Do you possess high combat ratings?"  
A soldier's calm demonstrated experience or confidence in his abilities; this one exuded both. He waited for John's answer, his breathing even, tilting his head curiously. "Where are you in the chain of command?"

"I have the gun. I ask the questions. Starting with your name."

"My name?"

"Yes, your name." John's patience was razor thin. "Rank? Designation?" Gritting his teeth, he growled, "What. Do. You. Go. By?"

"Gene."

Gene didn't seem to fit with the image of cold-blooded killer. Then again, neither did the guy's nondescript appearance.

"Is that weapon the only source of your skills?" Gene inquired.

John gripped the P-90 tighter, the gun an instrument of his command. "Place both hands behind you head, entwining your fingers."

"Take him out, sir!" Parker pleaded. "He gutted Corporal Dominguez, left pieces of him all over the compound for me to follow. He slit Doctor Kowalski's throat. Shot Doctor Boskins in the kneecaps. I tried protecting her the best I could, but he penetrated my defenses, took us out one by one."

Dark stains reflected off John's light; dried blood crusted all over ten fingers in the air in supplication. The slaughter in the halls flashed inside John's head along with those stacks of body bags. He didn't pull the trigger when his pulse thrummed, and he went to that dark corner of his mind that severed the connections to emotion. Cold sweat trickled down his back and his voice rumbled low and deep. "I said put your hands behind your head. I won't order you again."

Gene acquiesced, lacing his fingers as told. "Now what?"

Power was a funny thing; John had the gun, but he didn't feel in control right now. Pegasus has been a cruel teacher: never underestimate the enemy. He didn't have any wrist-ties, or Ronon's stunner, and Parker's safety was his main concern.

"Time for a nap," John replied, and slammed the butt of his rifle against the soldier's forehead.

Metal smacked flesh and bone; Gene's neck snapped upon impact, but he didn't sway, or even fall. John had plenty whacks to the skull before, and one thing was for sure. It was always light's out. A trail of red welled up from the cut, dripping down the soldier's nose, onto the floor. "Your demonstration of force was disappointing."

Gene's hands remained behind his head, but John's instincts were screaming. He aimed an inch below the prisoner's right knee and squeezed the trigger.

There wasn't a shout of pain, or vomiting from shock of a trauma at such close range. Gene studied the fresh wound, brow furrowed. "To incapacitate a target impedes its ability to remain mobile," he spoke, as if reciting from a manual.

John mind's flagged red, and he reacted, firing point blank. Gene's reflexes were faster. The P-90 was ripped out of John's grip and he was backhanded with a glove of concrete. There wasn't time to wonder if the strike broke his jaw, because he literally saw stars, his brain too stunned to do anything but throw an arm up for the next blow that knocked him off his feet.

"Sir! Colonel!…Hang on….Fucking bastard!"

"Parker," John said dazedly, using the railing to get back up.

"Target Nineteen is no longer necessary to this exercise."

Panic overrode pain and John let out a guttural scream. Bullets tore into the marine's body as Parker was mowed down by John's own gun.

Gene gave the automatic rifle a cursory glance before dropping it over the railing. "Projectile weapons are prone to malfunctions. What do you do when it runs out of ammunition?" he asked, oblivious to his act of murder.

Shock. Anger. Sorrow. The competition for dominance over John's psyche left his mind numb, his body coursing with untapped energy, and he pulled out his .45 without forethought. Gene grabbed John's wrist, bent it and the gun upwards, discharging five rounds in the process.

The muzzle flash scorched one side of John's face, the roar of the gun an explosion of artillery inside his head. His skin sizzled; his eardrums rattled. The world faded in and out; all the while the .45 was easily torn from his fingers, Gene's lips moving in slow motion in front of him.

"…rank…what was…mission…how many…"

John used Gene's voice as a radar beacon, shoved his shoulder into bone and flesh, and took off down the stairs, thinking, _find the P-90. Find the P-90._

The floor came out of nowhere and he rolled to meet it, doing nothing for his sense of orientation. Memory used to calculating lines of coordinates sought out the precise spot where his weapon fell. John bobbed between equipment, Gene nipping at his heels.

Spotting his gun, John lurched forward, heedless of the broken-stereo sounds all around. He grabbed the P-90, and brought it up to bear, while flipping onto his back.

Gene was right fucking there, and John fired, his target dodging the hail of bullets with inhuman speed. God, this guy was freakishly fast, nothing but a blurry outline dashing around consoles.

Who or what was he? Gene bled, crossing a Replicator off the list. John jostled to his feet, wheeling around the room searching for his target. One side of his face was on fire, his left eye squished closed, his hearing drowning under invisible water.

The seesaw of sound screwed up his balance and it took every ounce of concentration to follow the acrobatic feats of his opponent. John fired short volleys in anticipation of Gene's next move, aiming ahead of his forward motion. The P-90 clicked empty, and John realized Gene's ultimate plan. Clever boy, forcing him to waste ammo, knowing he could out-dodge whatever John threw at him.

"This is … of the … ineffectiveness of the…your… weaponry." Gene's words landed on half-deaf ears. "This however…" He bent over out of sight, and John rammed in another clip and repositioned.

Gene popped up like a jack-in-the-box, and John unleashed hell. Bullets struck the wall where Gene stood a second ago, the magazine jamming seconds later. _Fuck._ John darted toward the exit, thankful that he had the layout memorized, his one good eye scanning for movement.

Blue energy bursts impacted the door, nearly catching him in the crossfire. A quick canvass revealed Gene perched on top of the platform. What did he do, fly up there? There was no time to think, because volleys chased him into the opposite direction, mini fireworks licking his skin. Cover was nonexistent, panels exploded, equipment was set on fire. John ducked, rolled and spun, but no matter where he ran, blue surges found him. His uniform was singed somewhere, burning fabric a sharp noxious smell.

It was like shooting ducks in a barrel. Then why was he still breathing?

Gene was screwing with him, a cat teasing its prey and John wasn't going to play anymore. "Enough of this!" he snarled.

"My weapon does not have a re-load time; there is no interruption in fire," Gene lectured.

John's legs shook from adrenaline overload, his face throbbed, and his hearing only partially worked. "Sounds like you have the advantage in superior firepower."

"Firepower is one way to take out a target. It is responsible for eighty percent of all successful missions."

The platform was the perfect sniper's nest, covering all angles of the room. Only tiny movements would go unnoticed. Surviving this required a distraction, and there was no McKay to perform a miracle with chewing gum and a piece of tinfoil.

Playing injured, John leaned on the console, visibly resting his P-90 with his right hand, left hand slipping inside his tac vest. _Always draw the focus away from your true objective._ "What about Lieutenant Parker and his team? How long did he evade you and your superior firepower?"

"Tracking the units took time; they split up, and I took out the most vulnerable first."

Keeping cool while discussing the murder of his people was a mental exercise in willpower. All he had was C-4 and two detonators, which wouldn't do him a lick of good with Jason Bourne up there. "Why take out the weakest first? Why not the strongest?" he asked. His fingers dipped into the lower right vest pocket and he pulled out some explosive and pinched a piece off the block and applied it under the broken console.

"The strongest were the goal of the exercise; I merely followed my objective."

The detonator was next. John stuck the wire charge in, priming it for the remote and slowly pushed off the console. "What's your objective?"

"I will not reveal that to the enemy."

"And how do you determine the enemy? I know my people didn't initiate any attack on you," John growled. He tethered the useless P-90 to his vest and headed to the other end of the room in a non-threatening manner, closer to the other exit point.

"Any unauthorized entry onto this base is an act of aggression to be neutralized."

John used the bulk of the control panel in front of him to conceal his movements and pulled out the tiny remote, resting it on top of the console with his right hand. Rodney's voice was in the back of his head, yapping about the odds for failure about his next move. He slipped his left hand into his vest and pinched off more C-4. His fingers felt around for another detonator, and found the plastic nodal, and sawed at the plastic wire with his thumbnail.

"We thought this place was abandoned. There were no life signs. Why didn't you try to communicate with us?"

"My primary purpose is the defense of this base."

"We would have left peaceably and avoided bloodshed." John cut through the nodal with his thumbnail and squeezed the chemicals into a tiny paddy of C-4. He had seconds maybe. The chemicals Lead Stephanie and Aside were unstable primers in detonators, normally protected by their plastic-wire covers. A static discharge or even a fall from a few inches was enough to trigger a reaction. "Or is racking up high causality rates one of your _objectives?_"

"A hundred percent kill rate is the ultimate fulfillment of my duty. Why would I leave survivors?" was Gene's reply.

Fire burned in John's craw and he rested his right thumb on the side of the remote. "I'll be sure to pay you the same courtesy," he deadpanned, activating it.

The nearby console exploded into flames, successfully diverting Gene's attention. John ducked to avoid flying shrapnel, grabbed the tiny ball of C-4 out of his pocket and tossed it left-handed at the platform. Normally C-4 wouldn't do anything upon impact; however, this little bomb was unstable from volatile chemicals.

It slammed into the railing in a fireball. John was halfway toward the exit, the concussive force throwing him out the door. Surely Gene was mincemeat, but that would require a bit of good luck, and John didn't think he had any on this mission. He never stopped running, going for distance, barreling down long stretches of makeshift hallways as if pursued by rabid Wraith.

Something told him Gene might be worse.

Staggering into the next wall instead of rounding a corner was his body's signal to stop. The left side of his face pulsated madly, the desire to touch and check out the damage infuriating. It was as if nails dipped in acid had raked gouges across his cheek and neck.

His left eye was useless, his ears plugged with glue. Gene could be standing behind him and he'd never know it. Pulling out the life sign's detector, his heart stuttered in his chest.

How the hell was this guy still alive?

A red dot blinked in defiance, though it wasn't going after him. Maybe Gene was injured or the metal platform had collapsed on top of him and he was dying, bleeding out. John wouldn't take the chance, and set off at a sprint toward his team. It finally occurred to him to try the radio again, and he waited a few minutes, putting more distance between him and the bad guy.

"McKay? You copy?'

_"Ss-epprd?"_

"Yeah."

_"Where the hell have you been? Are you all right? One of the dots disappeared and we…"_

McKay was probably yelling in a high-pitched, frenzied voice, but the words were mud. "I really can't hear you."

_"We're in … of …here"_

"What?"

_"I said, we're in a lot of trouble here. And why can't you hear me?"_

"I'm a little deaf. Why are you guys in trouble? What's wrong?"

_"We're going to die of radiation poisoning."_

John kept a brisk pace, trying to avoid things like inanimate objects. "Just get inside…"

_"The jumper is currently lying at the bottom of the landing bay after someone released the docking mechanism."_

"There has to be a--"

_"Way to save us? Yes, there is. You need to… reactivate… in the… But the only way to do it is to reach the control room which is twenty miles away at the beginning of the complex."_

Twenty miles? In prime shape, he could run that in a little over two hours. "How long?"

_"We have…five hours left before…" _

John poured on the speed, cranking his legs, his calves and thighs burning. He glanced down at the LSD and did a double take, rubbing his good eye. The damn dot was on the move.

"Crap. I've got some trouble of my own."

_"Wait! Sheppard, you don't know what you're dealing with."_

McKay gave him the abridged version on Gene. Catching every fourth or fifth word didn't make what John learned any less scary. Something about weapons programs and genetically enhanced soldiers. "He's human after all."

_"Super human. He also has the ability to heal rapidly."_

"I'm facing Wolverine?" John asked, incredulous. This was his worst nightmare and it was pursuing him. "Damn it."

_"Yeah, we… him moving, too."_

McKay's voice faded in and out, and John shoved the radio further into his ear. "What? Never mind. You learn anything on how to kill this guy?"

_"I'm still looking."_

"Keep searching. Switching to radio silence."

Pocketing the com, he did a quick inventory; his only weapons were a K-bar knife and jammed P-90. John double-timed it, knowing if Gene caught up, he wouldn't fall for his tricks again.

----------

Rodney had adapted a method of speed reading for school that worked for date/quote happy professors which eventually developed into a useful filter for garbage information. This undoubtedly helped in life, especially when dealing with alien egomaniacs. Was it necessary to postulate every conclusion with a streak of narcissistic ambitions that'd make Earth's battiest dictators grin in envy?

"This program had to have been run under the Ancient's noses."

"Building an indestructible soldier might have changed the war," Teyla said, walking over. "They built other major weapons. Created machines to increase their evolution. Why not build an army able to defeat the Wraith?"

"All their evolutionary research was for the purpose of Ascension; this..." he waved at the screen, "was for galactic domination. I'm sure the program started off as a plan to defeat the Wraith, but whoever was in charge had grander schemes."

Rock clanking on ten inches of steel alloy reverberated inside Rodney's skull. Ronon grunted and growled and cursed, battering the unforgiving barrier with pointless bouts of violence.

"Will you stop that? Nothing you do is going to break it open. It was designed to withstand more force than that!"

Ronon whipped his head around, dreads obscuring face. "Some mutant soldier killed our teams and now it's hunting Sheppard. You got a better idea?"

"No. And if that door was held in place by hinges, or any type of physical mechanism, then I'd be showing you the best technique to pry it apart. But this is a power-operated barrier that only a lot of C-4 could possibly blow up."

As soon as the words left Rodney's lips, Ronon shook his head. "Don't have any."

Teyla checked on a semi-conscious Zelenka. They'd dressed him back into his suit despite Rodney's suggestion that they trade turns wearing it. "Maybe something on Radek's computer might help? Another way inside or information on how to get around whatever is blocking your connection," she suggested.

"Already ahead of you. I just established a link to the system using his laptop. Before you ask, I don't why it let me in; maybe it's because he had connected earlier and it recognized the ISP."

"That is great progress."

Rodney shook his head, dashing all of Teyla's hope. "There's like a hundred-bit encryption code on all vital systems except the ability to monitor life support, which will come in handy for counting down the minutes to our slow agonizing death."

"Then find another way inside!"

"Fine! How about I give you a spoon and you start digging a tunnel. It'd take you what…ten thousand years!" Rodney snarled back at Ronon, frustration and fear fraying and ripping apart his nerves.

Teyla pierced them each with a commanding stare. "This will not help us get to safety and it will not help John."

Rodney and Ronon mumbled apologies at the same time. Ronon closed both eyes and exhaled deeply. After a few cleansing breaths he popped his neck and tossed the large piece of moon rock to the ground. "You able to follow Sheppard's movements with that?"

"Yeah," Rodney replied, already bringing up the display. "He's still staying ahead."

"You sound surprised."

Rodney peered up at Teyla. "I've just gleaned a fraction of these figures, but this is really, really bad. They called it the _Genetically Enhanced Experiment_ for crying out loud, but despite the idiotic name, the results were damn impressive. The people in charge of the program successfully manipulated genes, not only to manufacture super-human abilities, but they also isolated protein molecules to help regenerate tissue and even bone at an abnormally high rate."

"Healing abilities," Teyla said grimly.

"Yes, Sheppard can joke all he wants about Wolverine, but why would a guy who can not only kill in a thousand different ways, but take a hell of a lot of damage, just wait around?"

"He's observing," Ronon said.

"Yes. According to this research, he was groomed to study, learn, and adapt to any tactic. Think about it. He's been around for how many thousands of years?" Rodney didn't know the hows or whys to all their lingering questions, including where the hell this guy had been hiding this whole time. At least not yet. "It'd make sense if he was testing Sheppard. Analyzing new methods before…well before--"

"Going after the kill," Ronon said flatly. "Maybe he's the one behind the transporter malfunction."

"But why? How come John and not when Ronon was with him?"

Ronon shrugged at Teyla. "Don't know."

They both turned expectantly, waiting for Rodney to pull an answer out of his ass, but he was too busy freaking out. "Come on! It's not enough that you're genetically altered!" Before his teammates could pester him, Rodney turned the laptop over for them to see. "I thought these were just more anomalies popping up, but the temperature inside the complex has steadily dropped by nine degrees."

"He wants to see how Sheppard will cope under extreme conditions," Ronon deduced.

"Yeah, well, that's not all. The oxygen saturation levels have slowly declined the last twenty minutes, not enough to be life threatening, but between extreme temperatures and low O2, Sheppard's gong to wear down quickly."

Rodney didn't mention _their_ increased exposure to constant amounts of roentgens. Secretly he hoped for a John Sheppard Hail Mary save, or one of his ridiculously whacked out ideas, but maybe this time, the odds were stacked too high.

That this time they were all going to die, just one of them was going to fall before the others.

----------

Tremors racked his calves and a slow burn worked over his thighs. Running was an art, a fine balance between mind and body. Finding rhythm and limits. John exceeded his half an hour ago, bending then breaking those barriers, pushing further, funneling exertion and raw pain into energy. Navigating unlit corridors with part of his senses muted and blurry made balance an issue. Shadows leaped out of blind corners, sending him into the sides of the mine.

Go, go, go!

The moment he caught his breath or wiped the perspiration dripping down his face--- Gene was there, a rapid relentless dog, waiting for the right time to go for the jugular.

Bursts of blue lit up the area, and the ceiling above John exploded, showering rock and dust on top of his head. And still he ran.

His forearms sported fresh red blisters and he was missing a patch of hair on the back of his skull somewhere. A few mild burns couldn't slow him down and John kicked it up a notch.

The next set of doors didn't open fast enough and he turned his shoulder, his scapula clipping them. If he stopped, if his momentum slowed at all, it'd be the moment Gene played for real and lasered a hole right through his spine.

He tumbled into a huge room with wide open space, artificial walls, and lots of once-shiny things. This had been an important spot, a hub for tech people geeking out over their controls. John's body took the rare opportunity to stumble, his boot catching on some metal box on the floor, the rest of him bouncing onto his wrists and knees, the useless P-90 digging into his chest. John stayed sprawled all over the floor, limbs mashed into liquid. Gene. Where was Gene?

John'd been running full force for two hours straight, playing lab rat in Gene's maze, forced into directions he didn't want to go. Now he lay there gasping like a carp on a dry dock. _Breathe, damn it_! But his chest felt too tight and too heavy. He coughed, sought more air, and coughed again. He fumbled for an oxygen mask that wasn't there, mind blanking on where and when he was…this too similar to a certain damaged cockpit over unfriendly skies. The whole room spun, and low humming equipment static popped in his eardrums.

Slowly the present chased away the past. Run, you have to run, John. Your team will die if you don't. He fumbled for the LSD and stared at the red dot in the adjacent room.

What are you up to, Gene?

Sweat stung his eyes, poured down his cheeks, scalding blistered flesh. God, his throat was parched, the inside rubbed raw, but if he had a cup of water, he'd splash it over the flash burns on his face.

Studying the life sign's detector, John mapped out the fastest route to the main control room and plotted the long way there, taking the eastern sectors and circling around. Gene was on the move again too, and John didn't want to know what had distracted the soldier.

-------------

Gene had changed the rules to the game, anticipating every one of John's moves. Gene moved faster than before, the red dot blinking two sectors away, only to reappear in the next room of ahead of John. The perfect soldier was bored using him as a moving target and decided to block all his routes instead.

John skidded to a halt, hands on his knees, panting for air that never reached his lungs. A migraine had taken up residence a little while ago, a vise digging into his temples. He fought the impulse to confront Gene full on, screw this cloak and dagger crap. John wasn't suicidal despite certain decisions of the past. His P-90 was as useful as an aluminum baseball bat and no match against Jason Bourne.

No, he'd outwit Gene in this game. There were ten miles to go and he still had a few plays left in his book. Walking away from the door, John went the opposite direction, double-backing, and would find a way to use Gene's new tactics against him.

---------

The best strategy sometimes was to have none, to use randomness to screw with your enemy. It worked in chess matches, opponents baffled by nonexistent patterns, throwing them off-kilter and forcing them to make stupid mistakes. John simply waited to turn the tables.

Gene was six sectors away, having gone the wrong direction several times. It was satisfying to witness the 'perfect soldier' giving chase where John hadn't been.

The next room held a few surprises, a narrow corridor with a creaky, rusty old catwalk suspended over a gaping chasm. There was no visible ground and John tossed a random shard of rock over the edge. With his hearing spotty, he used the time it took for it to vanish out of sight and estimated that it was at least thirty meters down.

His steps were shaky, having switched to slow and careful, after three hours of fight or flight. John gripped the railing, leaning heavily for support as his legs turned to rubber. Gene must've tampered with life-support; it was the only explanation for how thin the air felt and why goose bumps broke across his skin. And maybe an explanation about Gene's whereabouts earlier.

After he took three steps, the scaffolding beneath his feet groaned its unhappiness then snapped completely. John curled his arms around the railing just as the section of metal buckled and fell away. His legs dangled in empty air before his boots scrambled for purchase on the side of the framework and he hauled himself up.

Holding onto the railing with a death grip, he carefully leaned over, studying the four-meter section that had broken apart. Serrated, uneven stone made up the ceiling above, but it was too high for him to reach, and a quick glance at the LSD had Gene closing in.

"I scaled the city tower; this should be a piece of cake."

John clambered on top of the bar, arms spread out to right his balance. Crossing over the opening via the railing wasn't his brightest idea considering the catwalk had been unstable. Luckily the banister didn't crumple, and he made it across, pushing his luck even further by hopping down and praying the rest of the catwalk held his weight.

The scaffolding creaked with each step and he sagged in relief when he made it safely to the other side and sized up the golden opportunity staring at him in the face. Splitting your focus got you killed. The catwalk was defendable. Gene would have to slow down to walk across the railing, making him susceptible to attack, or he'd run across---giving John an idea.

This was the perfect place for an ambush. He was out of C-4 and his P-90 was still jammed, but men had waged war before guns.

He was surrounded by rocks, might as well use them. John quickly unzipped his vest, popping a few buttons, to remove his outer shirt, and slit the fabric into sections with his knife. Gene was two rooms away and John grabbed a couple of large rocks, stuffed them into the material, rolling and twisting the shirt around them. He couldn't throw the rock with enough strength to do any real damage, but if he took an inanimate object plus a few swinging motions, it multiplied the force and created a lethal weapon.

Putting his vest back over his t-shirt, John froze when his hand brushed an MRE in one of the bottom pockets. Wouldn't his plan be easier if a certain rail was slippery as hell? He ripped it open, stomach growling, and tossed aside the meat sauce, noodles, crackers, and candy bar…oh, cool – matches. He stuffed the matchbook inside a vest pocket and kept searching. _There._

John peeled open a container of fruit cocktail and grabbed the cheese spread, thanking all that was holy for the military's desire to give them a variety to eat. He went over and smeared both all over the railing toward the gap in the catwalk and scurried back as Gene entered.

_It's all over if he gets a bead on you._

Gene pointed his ray gun and John stood his ground. "A good shot doesn't make you a superior soldier, just means you can hit an unmoving target."

"And are you a good soldier?" Gene asked, shouldering the laser-rifle.

"I've been keeping ahead of you, haven't I?" John mocked, knowing damn well the truth.

Gene peered down the gorge, eyes scanning the railing, then hopped on top of the banister as planned…except when he jumped again it was much higher than John's ability, fingers hitching impossibly around pieces of rock from the ceiling and miraculously monkey-barring his way over.

Damn it!

Time to seize a brand new opportunity.

Gene was the moving target, his hands preoccupied.

John grabbed his knife and threw it with all his might, the blade striking Gene dead on with a sickening smack. The K-bar protruded grotesquely out of Gene's chest, blood wetting the front of his shirt. John grabbed his makeshift sling, swung it twice just as Gene lunged, sending three hundred pounds of force right into his enemy's face.

Blood poured out of Gene's nose in rivulets. He wiped his hand over his features; fingers smeared crimson and the bastard actually chuckled, spitting several teeth onto the ground.

John stood stunned in place. "You don't feel pain at all?"

"All my nerve endings have been modified," Gene replied. He cocked his head curiously at the knife stuck inside his body, unconcerned by the massive wound or the blood pooling at his feet. "I feel something at first, then nothing at all."

Gene went from complete stillness to motion before John's brain registered the change. A fist of steel clobbered him in the chin and he managed to dodge the one aimed at his head.

John jammed an elbow into Gene's mangled face to no effect, and then he planted a shoulder into Gene's midsection, only to be shoved hard against the wall, knocking the air from his lungs. Gene slid an arm across John's sternum, effectively pinning him in place.

"Pain is a weak spot to be exploited," Gene explained, grabbing the back of John's neck in some Vulcan nerve thing that sent spasms of agony down his spine and simultaneously paralyzed his ability to move.

"I see…acupuncture…in your future," John grunted.

"Pain is useful in extracting information." Most of Gene's facial bones were broken, his cheeks puffy and swollen, and blood flowed freely from his nostrils and mouth. "Where are you in the chain of command?"

"I don't understand the question."

"What is your name and rank?"

John's vision grayed at the edges between the lack of oxygen and the constriction to his chest. "Captain America."

Gene kept John immobilized by his neck, releasing the arm across his sternum as he began probing John's side. "It takes a lot of force to break the first three ring bones because they protect vital organs. When my bones break, they do not hinder my ability to fight. But when yours do…"

There was no time to brace himself when Gene slammed his fist just below John's breastbone. John couldn't hold back the cry of pain and his legs almost gave out from under him.

"What is your rank?"

"Cobra…Commander."

"The middle ring bones break the easiest."

The next blow was near his navel, and John howled, tears pricking his eyes. He choo-chooed for air as the bones snapped. "You fucking asshole!" John took shallower breaths, waiting out the desire to pass out. "It's Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. But you already knew that…didn't you? How else did you know to ask for my name and rank? Why else did you come after me?"

Gene's normal expression clouded with confusion. Blinking, he shook his head as if to clear, his normal confidence returning seconds later. "Many of your unit did not give away intelligence. Just name, rank, and their ID number. The weak ones answered all my questions. They gave me the operating procedures of your teams and the description of their military leader."

"The…the transporter…how did you..."

"You are the only true blood of my creators according to sensors and I used them to track your movements outside. If you had not entered the transporter, I would have simply opened the main doors and eliminated the rest."

"You're the one who released the docking mechanism."

Gene lessened his grip slightly, his body swaying. The blood puddle glistened larger by their boots, the entire front of Gene's shirt soaked in red fluid. "The rest of the targets are of no consequence, although your reaction to their impending destruction gives me data regarding your future movements and strategic goals."

Anger competed with the pain in his side and John held onto to it. "You were created as the ultimate soldier yet you have no comprehension of duty."

"Duty?" Gene's hand fell away, releasing its death grip on John's neck. "My primary function is the elimination of the enemy."

"Defeating an enemy has another purpose. To protect others and safeguard your team and those unable to defend themselves. You forgot the most important thing. A soldier is supposed to save lives." John drew himself up with a grimace, gathering his strength. "You also forgot the most important lesson about pain."

Gene breathed heavily, his speech lisping with all his missing teeth. "Wwhat's tthat?"

"Pain is your body's warning signs about injury," John explained.

He grabbed the K-bar knife, twisting it ninety degrees and yanked it out, blood spurting out in a river.

Gene stared dumbly at the massive hole in his chest, his super-fast arms limp by his sides.

"Hypovolemic shock is a bitch." John grabbed Gene by the shoulder, holding him still and slit his throat, dissecting the carotid artery. "Guess you didn't feel that."

Gene sputtered, severed vocal cords unable to produce sound. He stumbled, most of his blood volume outside his body before he dropped like a rock, gurgling and flailing about.

It didn't take long, maybe sixty seconds before Gene went lifeless.

John pulled out his LSD and watched the blinking red dot begin to fade, then disappear, leaving John as the only life sign.

"Enjoy your death," he snapped, planting an elbow against his ribs, and started the long jog to the control room to save his team.

_Error Code 8622_

Unable to perform desired action.

Access denied.

Catastrophic failure. System must shutdown.

"Are you alright, Rodney?"

"What?"

"You were growling," Teyla pointed out.

"I was?" Tuning the world out was an ingrained habit of his. Rodney gave himself a mental shake, gesturing at the laptop in disgust. "A toaster oven is more useful than this. Even the back doors of back doors are shut tight."

"I am sure you will find a way to connect."

Rodney scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he had a fraction of the confidence in his abilities that Teyla had in him at the moment. Speaking of teammates. "Where's Ronon?"

With a troubled sigh, Teyla sat down cross-legged next to him. "He is searching for another way in. I know you've told him that there are none," she said, beating Rodney to the punch. "He has it in his head that there might be a hidden entrance. It keeps him busy and from doing anything too…reckless."

"You mean like pulling some type of Sheppard-insane act like scaling down the ravine to try to reach the jumper?'

"I believe he understands that is a lost cause." Nodding at the LSD perched on his knee, she inquired, "How is John doing?"

The life sign's detector was angled at his peripheral vision, so he could keep an eye on their team leader, while battling artificial intelligence failures. "He's imitating a drunken blind man." Knowing he wasn't being fair, Rodney conceded, "Sheppard's been double-backing and circling and doing everything besides dancing a jig, but I think he threw the Terminator off his trail."

"Arnold Schwarzenegger?"

It was difficult not to smile at such a comment. "If only he was up against Arnold's I.Q." His eyes strayed to the ticking clock to their impeding doom.

"We still have a few hours before we are in immediate danger?"

"Yes. Although considering the amount of radiation we've been exposed to in the last few years…let's just say I'm glad that any future heritage has been preserved at this lab where…well…" Clearing his throat, Rodney went for a change of subject. "We have three more hours before we reach the maximum amount of exposure without permanent damage. Of course even at lethal levels, we wouldn't exhibit symptoms until many hours later, when we could look forward to internal bleeding, headaches, vomiting. Then our insides will slowly liquefy then--"

"But it will not come to that," Teyla stated with the full brunt of that endless well of confidence.

"Of course," Rodney lied. If Leprechauns hung around rainbows and Unicorns pranced around magical forests, then they might skid by with a slight acute exposure.

Just your average day in Pegasus.

A sound in the distance sent him scrambling for his weapon. Teyla tensed, scanning for the source.

"Just me," Ronon grunted, coming out of nowhere.

"Thanks for adding a coronary to my day!" Rodney snapped, any further tirade cut short by the LSD. "Oh, no. Our terminator's caught up to Sheppard."

The cascade of voices were both distracting and irritating and it wasn't until one of the red dots blinked weakly that Rodney became undone. "Don't you dare, you sonofabitch!"

His team screamed at him and Rodney filtered them out, eyes transfixed by the fading dot of life.

Then only one remained.

It was rare a thing to feel yourself fall apart. Rodney thought he'd be used to it by now, but it didn't take away from the pain, like scolding hot water. "Sheppard," he whispered.

Should he break radio silence?

Something gripped his shoulder hard and he peered into Teyla's forceful eyes, Ronon ominous beside her. "Rodney, tell us what is happening," she demanded.

Only one person could clarify things and Rodney tapped his com. "Sheppard, come in." Static coursed through his ears. "Sheppard, answer or I swear you'll be taking cold showers for--"

_"I'm…here, McKay."_

"Thank God." A knot inside his gut loosened just a little bit. Or it was the first physical reaction to…no, no, he wasn't going there. They had plenty of time. "Are you okay?"

_"I…I'll be fine." Sheppard sounded awful. "What happened to…radio silence?"_

"Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe we were wondering if you were alive or dead!" Rodney snapped.

"Did you kill him?" Ronon's voice rumbled.

_"Yeah… Yeah, I did."_

Ronon grinned in satisfaction, but Teyla was less than enthused. "John, are you sure…"

_"Look, guys…I…I can't talk right now…I think Gene did something to…"_

"Gene?"

_"Yeah, his name."_

Rodney glanced at his computer screen.

Genetically ENhanced Experiment.

"Oh, you have to be kidding me. Well, Gene, sabotaged life support. You're running around at a…" Rodney's eyes widened. "At an 84% oxygen level and dropping." Breathless wheezes greeted him in response. "Look, don't talk. He's messed with the environmental controls by cutting off the heat. If you keep a nice steady pace without overdoing, then you'll make the control room in plenty of time."

_"Copy that."_

Ronon began pacing. "So, now what?"

Rodney didn't like his answer any more than any of them. "We wait."

* * *

John knew something about hypoxia. Enough drills inside an avionics' lab simulator and a malfunction at fifty thousand feet at eight Gs taught his body well. His lungs were plastic straws trying to draw air out of the mine's atmosphere, the deeper the breath, the deeper the invisible blade twisted inside his chest. Even from the grave, Gene found a way to screw him, breaking one of his lower and upper ribs, creating a tug of war between them.

Breathing shallowly inside a slowly leaking balloon was out of the question and without a brace to stabilize the bones, jogging sent a jolt of agony with every step. High pain threshold or not, this was torture.

Three miles. He had three hours to haul his ass down less than half of his daily morning run, but it might as well be four hundred miles. Lactic acid coursed and burned overtaxed muscles from the earlier fun and games. Hours under a steaming hot shower might actually clean away all the blood in his hair and under his fingernails, but it'd take a soak in therapy whirlpool to alleviate all the aches to his body.

Another set of doors were ahead and he stood there, waiting for them to activate. His breath swirled in wispy tendrils around his face, condensing on the metal barrier. His forehead rested against the smooth surface, tempting him to stay there longer, just for a minute. His right eyelid fluttered closed, the icy chill in his bones mingling with his numbing limbs.

_No sleeping on the job._

John stared at the door; his gaze alone wouldn't open it, so he searched for a control panel, prying it apart and recalling which crystals did what. Switching the order of the fourth and sixth ones triggered the door.

Great, another catwalk.

This particular bridge proved to be more stable than the previous one and John left the catwalk behind. He went down one endless tunnel connecting another endless tunnel. Room after room, door after door. Intersections bypassing intersections.

One mile in fifty minutes and his momentum dropped to a pitiful walk-stop-shuffle into the next room. "This is different."

Rows of burned out lights hung over thick layers of black dirt that were evenly divided up into perfect squares across the ground. Lines of PVC pipe poked through the soil and ran the lengths of each section. He'd been to the botany lab enough times to recognize an indoor greenhouse unused for thousands of years. An irrigation system provided water; fluorescent bulbs produced UV rays, and walls covered by a film of plastic held in the heat. Wires and cord wrapped around wooden stakes where he imagined crops might have grown.

_Guess they didn't get many food shipments._

John battled the need to breathe with the need to keep moving. Don't stop. Don't think. Just go.

There were two additional corpses in the next corridor, two more of their people left to rot like garbage. The temperature preserved the bodies, capturing faces stretched in horror. He walked around puddles of condensing blood, telling himself that his increased shivering was from the cold only.

The next room spun around dizzyingly and he wrapped both arms around his middle for warmth and to keep the jackhammer riveting up and down his side to a minimum. It was difficult to read the LSD with one eye, the schematics fuzzy and blurring at the edges. At least the biting air had numbed up his face. Small favors and all that.

_"John?"_

Teyla's voice was a tiny echo of a tin-can phone.

"Yeah?" he rasped, the floor beckoning him to lie down and get off his feet.

_"John, we are worried about you."_

"I'm…" It took too much energy to speak; a drum started pounding inside his skull.

_"Sheppard, you have to keep going. If you don't, we'll all be glowing green or you'll suffocate. Or both."_

"Such…the optimist, McKay."

There was more talking and badgering, but John was drawn toward a card table surrounded by several folding chairs and an emergency lamp. His eyes scanned around, taking in cots, a clothes line drawn between two poles with linens pinned in place. Walking over, he spotted stacks of empty MRE's, crates of equipment, and a network of laptops.

"Bingo," he mumbled.

_"What?"_

John flipped on the light to his P-90, illuminating more random shell casings (that he snagged), tons of ransacked military boxes, and stained field dressings littering the floor.

_"Look, Sheppard! Listen to me. There's another red dot...I mean I think it's the same red dot! It just reappeared."_

John grabbed his LSD and stared unbelieving at the screen. "What the hell?"

Gene was alive and moving.

No, he wasn't doing this again.

It took nearly two hours to get this far and Gene would reach him in half an hour or more. There was no outrunning the bastard, no allowing him to catch up, because John wouldn't last another encounter, sentencing his team to death.

No, change tactics. Turn the tables. Slow Gene down or kill him.

**Again.**

_"Sheppard?"_

"I'll get back to you," he said, and turned his radio off.

This room appeared to be a common area, which would have been set up near the sleeping quarters. Sometimes a few of the Marines liked to bunk near a patrol vicinity to stay combat ready.

A research post with a rotating military unit required a certain number of supplies. Arm fixed to his side, John jogged to the far wall where stacks of black containers had been tossed around. Bending was a big no-no, rotating his body even a bigger one. There was a soft 'popping' sound as bone ripped from cartilage, nearly sending him to tears. John grunted and cursed, pushing over empty cases for leftover crumbs.

Plush styrofoam stared at him where stun and smoke grenades used to be and the storage cases for the unit's P-90s were bare. Ditto for the M-16s and MP-5 sub machine guns. "Give me something, guys," John mumbled, but all weapons were gone.

Who knew if Gene destroyed them or kept the guns for study? John started in on the first crate, finding dust and packing pellets for his troubles, then moved to another corner, discovering a spilled-over toolbox and he grabbed a screwdriver and a box of nails. Nothing else, no power drills, or even a heavy wrench. The research team had grabbed anything that could be used as a weapon.

Because of the mine, most of the military unit was made up of combat engineers. Where were the explosives?

The heavy equipment was elsewhere, and the mother lode of C-4 and TNT was missing or used up. Pulling out a small cardboard box, John found a set of fuses, and he stuffed them into his vest. But what he really wanted was the back-up generator for when all the Ancient shit stopped working. Because it always did; things at research posts failed all the time. It was located in the far corner, of course; the gasoline can normally attached to the side was on the ground, dented and empty.

The generator must've been used recently, because the tank was a quarter full. He swore his broken ribs gnashed together when he transferred every last drop into the container. A voice in his head that sounded a lot like Keller warned him how excessive strain or movement could cause the jagged edges to puncture a lung.

He took a precious moment to catch his breath, eyes straying to the cots and the small trunks at the end of them. He battled lightheadedness and went over, opening the lid to a treasure-trove of clothes.

It appalled him to take the clothes of one his fallen comrades, but he was freezing and the long-sleeved black shirt would add a needed layer. Lifting up his arms to remove his vest was agony personified, and he quickly slipped the shirt on, buttoned it up, and gingerly slipped back on his vest. He riffled through the trunk for a sign of whom it belonged to, hand bumping against a metal box. Curious, John's heart stuttered with adrenaline as he opened the small ammo case and found four M67 grenades.

These had Lieutenant Parker written all over them; the man had a fondness for good old-fashioned things that went boom. It killed John knowing he'd been the one to assign Parker to this duty, hoping the cakewalk mission would give him enough time to rebound from an off-world accident.

Cupcake missions were a myth. He should have learned that lesson by now and it'd been John's order to scale back the number of Marines. This entire thing was on his head. He buried the guilt along with the anger, to be dealt with another time. There was a small backpack on the floor and he snagged it, putting his bounty inside, and threw it over his left shoulder.

A check of the LSD had Gene still on the move, albeit slower than his super-charged speed. Maybe dying then regenerating took a lot out of a guy. Good.

Mind racing, John went in search for what passed for the mess hall. His instincts were correct, and the communal area was near the living quarters, which were tiny rooms with beds only. One of the bedrooms had been turned into the kitchen with a refrigerator, freezer, and a small oven.

Skipping the appliances, John went for more storage containers like a burglar, trashing everything until he found the cooking supplies. Perfect. He snatched a roll of cellophane, aluminum foil, two jars of peanut butter…hmmm styrofoam cups, and slid them into the backpack.

All the silverware was gone, including the knives. Gene had either cleaned up shop, or John's men had given the asshole hell.

He nearly tripped over his own two feet, an adrenaline high skirting with exhaustion. The contest of wills produced a weird sort of high, that or the O2 levels were severely lower than he'd thought. No matter what, it was time to turn the tables on this cat and mouse game.

John checked Gene's position and hoofed it back the way he came.

-----------

Boldness only got you so far, and John split the distance between him and Gene. He started pulling out control crystals from the other side of each door, buying himself a few minutes per entryway. Irritating the enemy, creating patterns for him to follow, shaped a desired behavior. There was no telling if Gene would follow the direct route, but once he passed the catwalk, there was only one direction to go.

Sabotaging the metal bridge required C-4, so he focused on the next entrance. Once he jacked the control crystals he took out the jars of peanut butter and scooped out the contents with his fingers, wiping the rest on the ground out of sight. Taking one of the grenades, he squeezed the safety lever and stuffed it inside the jar, the plastic container keeping the lever from releasing.

With a roll of duck tape, he secured the jar to the wall at ankle level, the opening facing sideways. Using twine he'd snatched from the greenhouse he tied a knot around the ring and taped one end to the right-hand door. He repeated the same thing to the other side, setting both bombs in place. Drawing the deepest breath tolerable, John pulled out both safety pins.

When Gene forced up the doors, it would yank the grenades out, blowing off his legs.

Or in this case, injure the man enough to slow him down.

He went through five more doors, threw aside five more sets of control crystals.  
On the sixth entrance he taped the next pair of grenades to the wall, wrapping the adhesive around the safety levers to activate them, and tied knots around the release pins themselves. Odds were Gene would check every door for traps, which would help slow him down, or he'd grow careless and fall for another trap.

Either way was a win-win in John's book.

John entered the greenhouse, eying the soil and wondering about the nitrogen content. If he brought down half the mine on top of Gene's head, it wouldn't matter if he stayed dead, but he lacked aluminum nitrate and didn't have time to mix up some flash powder to ignite a large level charge.

Perhaps the greenhouse could be utilized some other way.

Anticipate the enemy's behavior.

John regarded the wooden stakes and pulled one out. It was brittle with age and he sliced away a long piece with his knife. Using a rock, he pounded in six nails three inches apart from each other into the strip. Cartridge traps were an old trick used by the Viet Cong, but he'd seen them in Afghanistan. He retrieved several empty shotgun shell casings from one of his stuffed vest pockets and used his K-bar to cut off the bottoms of the shells, creating several cylindrical tubes.

Time was ticking down and he swiftly dug a hole in the ground with his knife, stuck the strip of wood with the nails into the soil and inserted the empty shotgun shells around each nail. Sliding out the P-90 clip, he took six live ammo rounds and placed them into the shells so they settled directly on top of the nails. He quickly covered the strip of wood with dirt, spreading the soil over the tips of the bullets.

Beneath Gene's sociopathic exterior was a cold lust for knowledge and morbid curiosity. The jumper remote would be the perfect bait. It was shiny and had buttons and it wouldn't do them a lick of good now and he laid it a few feet away from the booby trap. If Gene wanted to inspect it, maybe he'd lose a few toes stepping on something nasty on his way there.

Checking Gene's position, John studied the dot's progress, noting the increased speed.

Wolverine might have finally healed up. Hopefully some of John's tricks would buy him the time he and his team desperately needed.

----------

It was ironic that two red dots represented life and death, but not all together surprising. How many times had a blip of light been a Hive ship, Replicator, or a gazillion other enemies hell-bent on destroying them? And don't get him started on countdowns of doom At least this time, Rodney wouldn't be badgered every twenty seconds for a report, or given a second arbitrary number to worry about.

No, he was faced with just another all-too-familiar scenario, one so ingrained into the fiber of his being that he dreamed about it at night sometimes. And that was unraveling computer code.

Despite all his efforts to pry open the lock to their collective prison cell, Rodney couldn't defeat probability. Encryption codes were a math problem dependant on time and that was something that none of them had in abundance. He'd been handcuffed, unable to have control over his fate, forced into the spectator role, and totally transfixed by two little dots.

"Maybe I should--"

"Don't. Talking is a distraction and that's something Sheppard doesn't need to deal with," Ronon said, before Rodney could active his com.

It wasn't fair. Ronon fumed and paced and 'searched' for imaginary entrances that didn't exist. Teyla watched over Zelenka, and although he wouldn't wish such a chore on his worst enemy, at least it gave her something to do--even if that something wasn't what she wanted. Like fight or shoot or do anything else worthwhile.

Sure, Rodney had algorithms scrolling down his screen, but they were pointless, and they didn't hold his attention, not as much as the seconds and minutes piling up. Time and distance were the only two factors that could impact their exposure, and that was two more things outside his domain of influence.

Which left two blinking dots.

Two very slow blinking dots.

As in one had stopped moving and the other might as well be standing still.

"Come on, Sheppard, you're so close."

-----------

Which way was he going?

Forward, keep moving forward.

John's speed was wavering between a hobble and leaning against the nearest wall. He stumbled, got turned around, and fought through his fog of confusion. He had a flight path and that was straight ahead, always straight ahead. Based on Gene's earlier speed, he would have caught John dead-bang half an hour ago; that was until he encountered the first obstacle.

That fucking red dot had flickered and faded, but never quite went out. It stopped for ten minutes, then resumed its pursuit at an erratic, bumbling speed.

"Good luck running on stumps, asshole."

But Gene kept coming and John kept struggling.

It bothered him that he couldn't feel his toes, his legs masses of wiggling jelly, then nothing but numbness from cold and strain.

Half a freaking mile. Five more sectors.

The urge to check in with his team was maddening; his arms were too heavy, his focus scattered. Not that he'd have the breath to form words or be able to hear over his thundering heartbeat.

His forehead struck something hard and it took way too long to realize it was an unmoving door.

Control crystal, switch the control crystals, right. Which ones again?

"Hey, Mc'ky...which control crystals do I change?"

_"Sheppard?"_

"Which ones?"

_"What control crystals?''_

"The ones in the door," Sheppard snapped like it was obvious.

"_They don't open?"_

"No, why else would I ask?"

_"Oh, God, is your brain that oxygen starved? Are you going to be able to follow my instructions when you reach the control room? If you can find the control room?"_

"Door crystals," John growled.

McKay babbled in his ear and John had to have the sequence repeated three times. "Got it."

_"Sheppard, your buddy's on the move again…and he's wasting no time."_

Damn. Gene was in the greenhouse. When had he gotten past the second set of traps? Had John been that out of it?

The jumper remote might have been too temping as the red dot lingered for too long inside.

John forced himself through the next entrance, unable to convince his body to go faster than a snail's pace with his side threatening to rip him apart. He had no more stalling techniques or obstacles to buy him extra time.

Gene's life sign was on the move.

A quarter of a mile left.

_"John, I know you want to rest, but you need to keep moving,_" Teyla's voice floated about inside his head.

"I…am…moving," he said. It felt like he was moving.

_"Sheppard, just take one foot in front of the other,"_ Ronon encouraged.

_"Hurry!"_ Mckay's voice followed, frantic and bombastic inside John's head. "You only have two more rooms!"

_"Sheppard's, he's three room's behind you,_" Ronon boomed, his voice the same sharpness of the knife in John's side.

Getting to the controls meant nothing if he didn't have time to activate them. Fear was a hot, all-encompassing thing, a flight or fight zap to his mind. He unshouldered the backpack and instinct took over. Hands automatically assembled the needed items as he poured an inch or two of gas into a number of styrofoam cups and quickly wrapped saran wrap over each opening.

_"Sheppard!"_

John flinched at the intrusion. "I'm a little preoccupied right now."

_"With what? Gene's like seconds behind you and you're only a few feet away from the--"_

"In the middle of making Napalm," John explained with more calm than he felt.

_"Napalm? Are you nuts? You couldn't override a door without my help. What makes you think you can--"_

John turned off the com and wrapped tape around the lids. Then he swirled the cups so the gas soaked up the insides and flipped them upside down, sticking a fuse in the bottom of each one.

Gene, or what was left of Gene, stumbled through the doors. John hid the bomb behind his back, a single match firmly in his left hand and readied against the ground.

"Lose your boots?" John joked.

Gene's legs were shredded, it was hard to tell if he had any feet left, his pants were soaked with blood and he left red puddles where he walked.

"I will not allow you to retreat." Gene's voice had this old man wheeze of damaged vocal cords.

"Escape? Where? You're the one who sabotaged our jumper. Where would I go?" John stalled. Waiting for the right moment, hoping the room stopped dancing around.

"Will more of you come?" Gene demanded.

John didn't respond, refused to give a living, breathing war machine more intel.

"Will your commander come next time? Will he deploy other tactics? Like the ones you used?"

That's what Gene wanted, wasn't it? To engage and apply all his encounters to kill more efficiently.

"No," John ground out.

"You came for the other units and more will come for you. Who? What type of soldiers?"

"If anything, my people will arrive and blow up this base from orbit without stepping foot here. And all that you protect, all that you defend, will be turned into rubble," John snarled.

Gene's battered and blood-stained face twisted into a mask of confusion. As if what John said had not computed with his one-track mind. "I have a hundred percent engagement rate. I will not allow your retreat to the neutral area," Gene vowed, ignoring John's previous statement, stepping closer in a limping stagger, his uniform in tatters.

"Why should I retreat when my team's already here?" John asked, gesturing behind Gene's back.

Gene turned and John struck the match, lit the fuse, and flung the cup. Gene turned back around in time to catch a chest full of fire, the resulting viscosity, rubbery bits of burning styrofoam. Gene tried smothering the flames with his unfeeling arms and John lit the next fuse and threw the next bomb.

The thing about napalm, even homemade crap, was that it burned for several seconds and the second bomb added to the first one. Gene's clothes were fuel to the fire and he flailed about in a growing ball of flames and confusion. Most people burning alive would have screamed or yelled, made any type of noise.

Gene's silence was worse. His inability to douse the fire and panic only fanned the flames.

There was no taking a chance. John fumbled with the next cup, igniting the fuse and volleyed it over to finish the job. This time it bounced off Gene's pin-wheeling arms, landing harmlessly to the ground, the fuse knocked out.

Crap.

John scrambled for more gasoline in the growing chaos, the battered can resting near his discarded backpack.

"Always have a back-up weapon."

John whirled at the voice, saw his own .45 pointed at him among the lapping orange and yellow blaze. He lunged for the gas can as a pain ripped through the back of his shoulder and out his chest, the report of the gun sounding a split-second later.

He clutched the gas can and spun around with the last of his strength, splashing the rest into Gene's face. The soldier's head literally burst into flames, bringing him to his knees, the .45 clattering to the ground. John crawled the pitiful inches toward the weapon and curled his hands around the familiar handle.

Then put a bullet in Gene's skull.

From the splatter of brain and tissue, this was one injury that genetics couldn't heal.

Shock seized his trembling body, his right arm immobilized by searing pain, the epicenter an untraceable throb in his shoulder. John staggered to his feet, the world a rush of fading color and buzzing sounds. He placed one foot in front of the other, listing to one side, but finding the control room regardless.

The doors whooshed open and he nearly fell on his face right then and there, but pressed on toward a massive set of control consoles. Blearily, he searched for the proper one, mind blanking out, the buzzing doubling into a thrum of white noise.

Blood trailed down his arm, dripping onto the floor. "Rod'ney," he breathed into the com.

_"Damn it, Sheppard! Stop shutting off the radio on me!"_

"You have a minute…two tops, to guide me to the correct light switch to this whole place," he panted, leaning heavily on the equipment.

_"Right, right. You just killed Gene,_** again**, _so you're probably dying on us now…I mean, you're not really dying are you? Because…"_

"Now, McKay!"

John used his left hand since his right one didn't work very well, hanging on to every syllable, praying his hearing didn't choose that moment to fade. He thought he hit the right controls, but things were dimming and his sense of time went with it.

It was possible he'd taken the base off-lock down, opening the doors so his team could find shelter for the poison outside. He found himself staring up at the ceiling, his body slumped to the floor, and unable to fight the darkness that finally pressed its icy fingers against his eyelids, he closed them in promise of a long slumber.

-----------------

Ronon beat Rodney to the sensor, nearly pulling it off instead of using a simple wave. The bulky doors groaned in old age; six-inch thick metal alloy clanked along the tracks, the Satedan ready to push them the rest of the way open.

"You could give us a hand with Zelenka," Rodney growled, helping Teyla get the semi-conscious physicist mobile.

"I…I can stand," Zelenka rasped, but he'd swayed unsteadily.

Rodney hooked an arm over the man's shoulder to hurry the process along. At this point, minutes could mean months or years off their lives. He kept telling himself his fear had nothing to do with Sheppard not replying to their pleas and threats to answer the com. Not that the colonel hadn't had any qualms in turning the damn thing off, but this time was different. The radio was still transmitting; the problem was the pall of silence over the airwaves.

Despite charging in, Ronon paused just inside the entryway, weapon pointed ahead, scanning around the darkened area. "Which way?"

"The life sign's detector indicates that this Gene is dead, but we should proceed with caution," Teyla warned.

Somehow Rodney got stuck carrying Radek while Teyla stepped ahead of Ronon in three quick strides, contradicting her own words of vigilance. The layout was ingrained in his head from hours of burning it into his retinas. "Go north for thirty meters, then the first left, and we should be at the control room."

Rodney's breath clouded in front of his face, and the tip of his nose was a rosy red after only minutes inside. His shivering sent vibrations into his charge, causing Zelenka to groan. "Sorry, sorry, just don't throw up on my shoes," Rodney warned.

Walking fast inside the complex was more like running a treadmill up Mount Everest. Three minutes and he wanted an electric blanket and lots of wonderful oxygen. To think Sheppard had been trapped inside for hours in these conditions, going head to head with some genetically superior human weapon.

Environmentals would be a priority after life support, then communications then--

"McKay, hurry up," Ronon growled.

"You're not the one carrying--" Zelenka nearly toppled into him, cutting Rodney's tirade.

"I'm sorry, maybe you should--"

"Shut up, Radek. We were not going to leave you outside to be ionized and we're not going to dump your bony-assed body before we regroup with the rest of our team."

"But…that's what happened…last.."

"I said be quiet," Rodney snapped. They all knew one of the Marines probably got Zelenka out of that hell hole before going back for the others and never returning.

_We will regroup. All of us, and we'll all go home alive to eat pudding cups and warm apple pie. _

"McKay!"

Rodney hobbled with Zelenka in tow; Ronon and Teyla were all kinds of pissed and frantic in front of a door that refused to open. "On it." For once there was a functional panel on this hellhole and he popped it open as Zelenka sat on the ground. "There. It should work now!"

As soon as the words left his lips, the doors opened and his team stormed through. Zelenka waved him inside. "Go!"

Rodney charged, gasping for oxygen, feet impossibly loud. The control room reeked of fuel and charred flesh and death. He froze, heart lodged inside his throat, choking him with too thin air. "Is he? I mean…"

"He is alive; he is going to be fine," Teyla said, furious hands contradictory to her words.

Ronon bent over Sheppard, expression a thundercloud, hand on his team leader's shoulder before he rose with a fury. "I'll secure the area."

Rodney met Teyla's eyes, breaking his paralysis, and he was there instantly, kneeling in his friend's blood. He'd seen Sheppard battered and broken, but never like this. "Where do we start?"

"With the wound in his shoulder."

"Yes, of course." The one leaking like a sieve. Rodney took a pressure bandage in numbing fingers and pressed it into the injury while Teyla carefully moved Sheppard forward, applying another field dressing to the smaller hole in his back. "He was shot from behind?"

"Does this surprise you?" Teyla asked, her fury held at a razor's edge. "Does perfection negate cowardliness and cruelty?"

"No," he mumbled, hideously transfixed by the damage. One side of Sheppard's face was blazed pink and red from powder burns, the other side was swollen and covered with purple and dark blue bruises.

"He is cold as ice." Teyla broke his brooding observations as she pressed her fingers to Sheppard's pulse in his neck.

"Right, temperature controls," he replied, standing. Rodney searched the screen, fingers tap-dancing over the console.

"The base is secure."

Rodney nearly jumped out of skin and turned to glare at Ronon. "That's the second time you've done that!"

"You…doin' something about the air?" Ronon snapped, breathing like he'd run around the whole complex.

Rodney swallowed, staring at the fresh red stains all over Ronon's hands as he wiped a sharp knife across his pants and slipped it back in place. "Sheppard got Gene good, but I made sure the guy wouldn't ever heal again."

"Do I want to know?"

"I chopped his--"

"Never mind. Oh, crap! Radek. I left Zelenka outside the entrance!" Rodney panicked.

Ronon balled his fists, not wanting to leave again, but barreled out and returned with the only survivor from the doomed research post before Rodney could finish locating life support. "I've reset the oxygen levels and restored the heat, but it'll be hours before they reach normal status. I'm sending a coded message to Atlantis since most of communications are still offline. They've more than likely already sent a jumper to investigate, but we're still looking at two more hours before a rescue arrives."

Slumping down in a peaked-adrenaline fit of exhaustion, Rodney leaned his back against the equipment, his skin crawling with gooseflesh. He stared at Sheppard, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, and a missing patch of hair above his left ear.

Pulling out one of the emergency foil blankets, he started draping it over his friend. "He should stay warm."

"We all should," Teyla repeated, pulling out her own blanket and wrapping the crinkling material around herself and over Zelenka who was leaning on her opposite shoulder. "Ronon," she ordered, holding it open.

"McKay," Ronon gestured.

Rodney took the spot between Teyla and Sheppard, Ronon book-ending the colonel. They all settled in to conserve heat. Rodney shivered even more when Sheppard soaked all his heat away like a sponge. But Rodney settled his friend's head against his chest wordlessly, and Ronon adjusted Sheppard's lanky legs across his lap, the two of them bunching the silver blanket over them.

Collective trembling turned into a drowsy mass of limbs. Rodney and Ronon took turns checking Sheppard's pulse and squeezing a hand or an arm. Teyla rested her head on Rodney's shoulder, occasionally stroking Sheppard's hair.

There were bandage changes in between quiet murmuring and whispers, the five of them embracing the growing heat. It wasn't surprising when the colonel interrupted the peaceful huddle with a wild shout and lunge at nothing. Three of them calmed and settled a very alive yet weak Sheppard back to the cozy place between them.

"Are…are we…"

"We're good, Sheppard. Help's on the way, so you hang on," Ronon told him.

Rodney swore he heard "fuck the Bourne Identity", but he could've been wrong.

* * *

A pack of wolves chased John through the Hive ship; acidic saliva dripped down metal teeth, jaws chomping at his heels. Webbed corridors turned and twisted in every direction, but all he was doing was running in circles. He glanced back and instead of mangy furred animals, there was a ten-foot tall Wraith with a feeding hand of rusty nails. John tripped and was sent sprawling across the ground, skidding to a stop in front of Gene's bloody feet. John earned a boot to the jaw, and then a second boot stomped on his chest, pinning him to the floor. Gene ground his heel into John's sternum, cracking the bones and crushing his lungs, the smell of burnt leather and skin assaulting his senses.

He jerked awake to a blur of whites and light grays. Something beeped near his ear, a soft, floating type of sound, blending into white noise. Hard plastic dug into his nose, delivering fresh oxygen, and a heavy lethargy seeped away what little awareness he'd managed. Perhaps this was good, because behind the syrupy feel to his world was a muted throb to his entire body. He desperately needed a drink of water to wash away the foul taste in his mouth, but his eyes drooped closed before he could give it any more thought.

When he woke a second time, it was to a numbness from heavy painkillers and a panic that breached through the cotton layer over his brain. Breathing too fast was strange, because for the first time in what felt like a while, he could breathe, but it caused his chest to twinge in funny ways. But he needed to clear his head and figure out what had triggered an increased sense of paranoia and desire to find his gun.

A nurse, Linda he thought, came to his bedside. "Colonel Sheppard?"

He searched the room and his fear skyrocketed. "Where?"

"You're in the infirmary, Colonel. You were…"

"No," he rasped, closing only his right eye? "Where's my team?" He blinked, trying to figure out what was wrong. Warm fingers closed over his hand when he reached out to examine his left eye.

"Please, don't try to touch the dressings on your face," Linda said gently. "I'll get Doctor Keller."

She didn't respond to his question and now he really needed answers. Wanting to move and actually getting his body to respond to his commands were two separate things. His right shoulder was immobilized and he stared dumbly at the blue fabric, vision blurring at all the wire leads attached to his chest.

"When you're pumped up on enough painkillers to bring down an elephant, it reduces your attention span to a gnat," came a familiar voice.

John glanced up, his head acting much like a bobble-head. "Rod'ney."

"Very astute. Do you think you could recite your ABCs next?"

Despite the sarcastic edge, John honed in on his friend's voice.

"If you grin any further you'll start drooling on yourself."

"Are you all right?" John asked, smile disappearing when he noticed Rodney's scrubs and the IV stand he was hooked up to.

"No. This is the first three hour period where I wasn't puking my guts out. And despite what Jennifer says, I know I've lost more hair," Rodney growled, then eyed the chair at John's bedside and lowered himself gingerly into it. "Not to mention the fact that walking from one side of the room leaves me exhausted and I have to roll this stupid thing all over the place."

"That's because you're still suffering from fatigue and you shouldn't be out of bed. And I've already told you that you were not exposed to enough roentgens to lose any hair." Keller's voice came from the other side of John's gurney. "Hello, Colonel. It is good to see you awake."

"How's everyone else?" John asked, battling heavy eyelids.

"Teyla and Ronon are obeying orders to rest while I keep them under observation. Zelenka is being treated for exhaustion and a moderate concussion. I promise everyone is going to be fine; you're the one who needs to sleep," Keller told him.

There were other questions, but the most pressing ones had been answered and John lost the battle to narcotics before getting the chance to ask any more.

---------------

John woke up many more times only gleaming to the tiniest bits of consciousness before dunking back into the sea of fog and haze. It was hard to tell if hours or days had gone by, but his next bout of wakefulness lasted enough time to hold a conversation. Teyla was sitting in the chair next to him, reading a book that he couldn't see the title of.

"Working…on your English?"

Teyla closed the novel with a tired smile. "It is nice after several years not to have to look up so many words in the translation program Rodney set up on my laptop. How are you feeling?"

John had to think about his state for a moment. "Pretty numb. I imagine I'm not going to like it when Keller cuts off the morphine."

"No. You had surgery to repair the bullet wound to your shoulder, but Jennifer said you will feel the effects from your encounters with Gene for a while."

"Guess I won't be on the cover of GQ."

"That magazine is for _shubas_," Ronon proclaimed from nowhere, snagging another chair. "You look like you grappled with a Wraith and forgot to duck."

"Don't think ducking would have worked. Gene had a right hook of lead," Sheppard said, touching his chin. He didn't need a mirror to know he looked like the loser of a boxing match. "And my eye?"

"It is swollen shut by the flash burns, but Jennifer says they will heal without scarring," Teyla reassured him. "You also have several cracked ribs that in time will also mend."

"Guess all the kings horses put me back together again," John mumbled to the confused expressions of his teammates. He closed his eye, the room spinning briefly, a sure sign of the entire pharmacy in his system. "You guys…sure you're okay?" he asked waiting for it to pass.

"They took our clothes and we were…um…thoroughly sanitized," Teyla explained. "We were on IV medications for the first three days but that ended this morning. We must take several pills for the next two months."

"We can't be near sick people." Ronon shrugged.

"And don't forget the headaches," an all too familiar voice complained. "And the antibiotics they have me on gives me a rash," Rodney said, in a way of greeting.

All three voices lulled John back under the blanket of sedatives and medication.

-----------------

The next time John dreamed, Gene hunted him down a hallway from _The Shining_, the one that went on forever. This time when his legs crumbled underneath him from exhaustion, Gene cut John's throat so they had matching Columbian neckties.

He gasped awake and was instantly rewarded with simultaneous pain in his side and shoulder. Trapped by bedrails and tubes, all he could do was ride it out and wait for the throb to dull.

"You know pain medication is administered for a reason," Rodney said over the clicking sounds of his keyboard.

"I've been doped to the gills for five days." John took a semi-deep breath. "I requested a lower dose so I don't become addicted."

"Sure."

It was the truth, but John didn't want to argue; he lacked the energy. The burns to his face were healing and now they itched, only adding to his discomfort level. "Did Lorne's team finish the sweep of the base?"

"You asked me that last time." Rodney looked up from his screen. "Did they check you for brain damage?"

Had he fallen asleep again? John rolled his head, since moving caused too many problems. Getting out of bed for his five minute shuffle around later on was going to be hell. He always took the pain med booster ten minutes before the required physical therapy. "Do you mind repeating their findings?"

"They discovered a stasis capsule which contributed to the depleted shield and why the cloak finally gave out. It was in a hidden room that of course our teams missed after four weeks of exploring. We think Gene's ability to heal kept him from aging in there and believe me the SCG is very interested in the research we found. " Sighing, Rodney put his laptop aside. "We're still not sure what triggered the end to the Terminator's beauty sleep. Maybe turning on a certain sector, or a monitor was tripped. After tearing the place apart there is no evidence of another one. Gene was the only prototype which backs up my findings on the weapon's program."

"He killed them all," John said. "The people who created him."

"It looks like it. Gene kept a mission log of sorts. He turned on those who helped create him. Perceived them as a threat to the base. Then there was a bunch of notes on what skills he utilized, but he learned very few new ones. Guess he forgot it took people with brains to launch the program with very few actual military advisors on the premises."

"He didn't want me to retreat to neutral territory," John spoke up. "I don't think his scope went past the defense of the base." Grimacing, he looked up at Rodney. "Guess he wasn't the perfect soldier after all."

"Try psychotic, but you already knew that. You tamper with the same set of genes and regenerate model after model, it's going to lead to--"

"Inbreeding," John interrupted.

"Funny."

John wasn't laughing. Nineteen people were dead.

"Lorne's team found all the supplies and weapons. Most of them had been used by our people, but Gene stored the rest. I guess he didn't count on encountering urban terrorism."

Shrugging hurt, so John just lay there.

"I didn't think your status as a living legend could have ballooned any more. The Marines will probably use your mission report as a study manual and I think Ronon is re-watching _Rambo_ as we speak."

John didn't take pride in the things he had to do to protect others. "I just did what I had to."

_Please leave it at that_, was the silent request.

Rodney was a good friend because he picked up his laptop again. "I brought a game to play. If you're up to it."

No, not really, but his next round of meds weren't due for an hour and the computer promised a distraction. "Not sure if I want to play that RPG."

Rodney fidgeted. "Oh, that. Think I'm done with that game. Custom-building the perfect character lost its appeal."

"What game are we talking about then? Kind of only have the use of one hand here."

If anything Rodney's cheeks blushed. "Well, it was this game my niece sent me. About um…farming."

"Farming?"

"Yeah, you plant crops and raise animals and--"

"Sounds like our first year here," John said with a frown.

"No, no. It's cool. See, there's this girl you're supposed to woo and um, well, you don't have to do anything but lie in bed and help me choose the field and what to spend money on."

No shooting bad guys or being chased by one.

"Sounds perfect," John said. "But I get to name the farm."

* * *

The prompt. I think I got it all except the setting was outside.

Sheppard is off-world (any natural environment is fine) and fighting  
against a single opponent in a one-on-one battle for survival. (Like  
the SG-1 season 7 episode, "Death Knell," where the alpha site was  
attacked by one of Anubis's drones and Carter was on her own and being  
hunted down.)  
- John is on his own and must use his resourcefulness and intelligence  
to overcome a stronger opponent  
- A realistic portrayal of cracked or bruised ribs, and any other  
injury that comes up, as well as increasing exhaustion as the  
cat-and-mouse hunt drags on  
- The team can show up at the end, once John's beat his opponent by  
himself, and help him get back to Atlantis  
- A good dose of comfort in the infirmary!  
- Gen only; can be dark and have as serious whump as needed, but no  
permanent injury or main character deaths.


End file.
